


A Shadow the Length of a Lifetime

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Explicit Language, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-26
Updated: 2009-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-30 08:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10158386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Herbert Ward once said "Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime."  Wizarding Britain is about to see just how dark such a shadow can be.





	1. Prelude: The Neighbourhood Freak

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

  
** A Shadow the Length of a Lifetime **

**Prelude: The Neighbourhood Freak**

_Clearly I remember picking on the boy_  
Seemed a harmless little fuck  
But we unleashed a lion...  
...how could I forget?  
\- Pearl Jam, "Jeremy"

A freak of nature lived in Number 4 Privet Drive, and everyone knew. Oh, no one was crass enough to mention it in public, certainly not gauche enough to actually dare try to bring it up in conversation with Petunia Dursley, but everyone knew. There were too many weird occurrences around that property, too many owls fluttering down to roost on the mailbox outside. Too many folk dressed stranger than any hobo wandering down the sidewalk at odd hours of the day and night.

The bolder among Privet Drive’s residents often found excuses to call on the Dursley residence, in the hopes of getting a glimpse of the freak, but he was rarely to be seen. The slightest chance sighting of the small, black-haired boy was worthy of a week or so’s gossip in the circle’s meetings, and whoever had seen him most recently could reign smug and supreme over the less fortunate ones.

Mildred Frump was the envy of the Privet Drive knitting circle, since she lived at Number 6 and had arguably the best view onto the property next door. Even Nancy Wicker, who lived at Number 2, didn’t have such an unimpeded view into the back yard of Number 4, for her husband had a most aggravating fondness for hedges, and the one that grew along the property line was especially high and thick. Mildred more often than not hosted get-togethers, which were a thinly veiled excuse for speculating as to the boy’s abnormality

And so it was that one lovely Saturday morning in mid-July, Mildred set down a tray of iced tea and finger sandwiches on her patio table and took the seat between Nancy and Anne Gaulter of Number 1. Gertrude Gumpter of Number 5 and Julie Barnes of Number 3 made up the other two members who had deigned to show up today. 

Gertrude sat munching down the snacks laid out like food was scarce, carelessly brushing crumbs from her front. Her eyes were fixated on Number 4, where the freak was partway up a ladder, painting the garage. “Always approved of manual labor for kids,” she said around a mouthful of food. “Sets right the bad seeds straightaway. The earlier you catch ‘em, the better.”

Julie snorted delicately into her tea and set the glass back on the coaster Mildred had provided. “That must be why your three boys have turned out so splendidly, Gertie dear,” she said pleasantly, and Mildred had to stifle a snort of her own. Prior to the Dursleys moving to the neighbourhood, the Gumpters had been the street’s scandalous family, with one son in prison and another a shiftless layabout on the dole. The youngest was Gertrude’s only saving grace; he was a doctor up in the city, a fact Gertrude never let the others forget.

“Do you suppose they adopted him from a third world country?” Nancy asked, watching in fascination as Vernon Dursley came out of the house and went over to the ladder. She leaned forward as the man started waving an arm about. “After all, we all know that Dudley of theirs isn’t cut out work around the house.”

“More the mother’s fault, if you ask me,” Mildred sniffed, and took another bite of her lady finger. “He’s more of a layabout than Gertie’s own Donald. Wandering about with those thuggish friends of his.” She wagged a finger. “Mark my words, he’ll be knocking over shops and doing drugs in a few years.”

“No doubt,” Nancy agreed.

Anne Gaulter, the only one who had actually brought knitting supplies to the knitting circle meeting, sat with her back to Number 4, working on her sweater. “What exactly is wrong with the child?” she asked. “You all go on like he’s a carnival sideshow, but no one ever mentions why.”

Gertrude, Julie, Mildred and Nancy exchanged looks, but whatever war they’d been silently waging, Mildred handily won. She was, after all, the one with the best view. 

“No one’s told you?” she asked. At Anne’s negative shake of the head, she leaned forward and lowered her voice, though there were no outsiders to hear her. “It’s impolite to speak of it in public, but the boy is _unnatural_.”

Anne arched an eyebrow. “Unnatural?”

Nancy nodded emphatically. “Oh yes, dear. Wholly unnatural.”

“The cats,” Gertrude said in between bites of her food.

“Those owls,” Nancy added with a delicate shudder.

“That bizarre way he was left,” supplied Julie.

“Pets going missing.”

“Johnny coming home with purple hair after a bit of teasing him.”

“Those odd sounds from Number 4 last week.”

“Don’t forget the lights.”

“Oh! And the gardens!”

Mildred, Nancy, Julie and Gertrude all shared another, knowing look, then turned back to Anne and chimed, “Those odd people.”

If Anne had been sceptical before, she was downright disbelieving now. “Cats? Sounds? People? The way he was left?”

Mildred glanced over at Number 4 again, where the boy had come down from the ladder to stand in front of Mr. Dursley. For his part, Mr. Dursley was gesticulating wildly at the barn, and even from the distance, it was plain to see his face was red with anger. The freak stood with his head down, and for all intents and purposes appeared to be absorbing the tirade. Mildred watched for a moment before turning her attention back to Anne. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley seemed like very salt-of-the-earth folks when they first moved in,” Mildred said, “nicest people you’d ever meet. Their boy was an absolute delight. Then one night, about, what Gertie, eleven years?”

“Roundabout,” Gertrude said, her mouth full.

“Eleven years ago, all sorts of strange things happened. There were shooting stars in the sky, and owls flying about everywhere. Day or night, it didn’t matter. We saw all manner of very strange characters too. People who didn’t even look like they knew how to properly dress themselves! Women walking about in bathrobes and galoshes, if you can believe that. And not just here. All over London. 

That same night, someone left a baby on the doorstep of Number 4. And ever since then, the Dursleys have been more reclusive than ever. It's like they're ashamed of what they took in that night. You see their own boy around all the time, but that one--" She waved vaguely towards Number 4. "--is hardly ever around. And the strangest things have been happening ever since he came here." 

"One time," Nancy said in conspiratorial tones, "Frank was out clipping his hedges, and he saw the boy literally disappear right in front of his eyes."

"I still say Frank was on the sauce that day," Gertrude snorted, shoving another lady finger into her mouth. "The man's a lush, Nancy. More than time you admitted that."

"What about Mrs. Figg's cats?" Nancy shot back. 

"Who's Mrs. Figg?" Anne asked. Nancy jumped a little, like she'd almost forgotten Anne was there, even though they were supplying this information for her benefit. 

"Lovely old lady over on Dunmere Avenue," Nancy replied. "She's a bit barmy, I think, and she has dozens of cats. None of the cats will go anywhere near the neighbourhood children, but that one? They swarm around him and meow as loud as can be. And that," she added, with a rather spiteful look at Gertrude, "was witnessed on two separate occasions by at least three people."

Gertrude returned with a scowl, but didn't say anything. 

"I don't know, Mildred," Anne said doubtfully. She bit her lip and finished her row to begin another. "It all seems a bit farfetched to me. Are you sure all these reports are to be trusted?" She glanced over her shoulder with a small frown. "Honestly, it seems to me that that Vernon fellow is a bit heavy-handed with a small child."

"One does have to have a firm hand with the children," Gertrude said. "Spare the rod and spoil the child, after all."

“I think something’s happening,” Julie said suddenly, and in her haste to put her glass down and stand up to see, she knocked it off the table, shattering it on the deck. Mildred ignored the glass – they could be replaced, after all – and whipped her head around so fast she heard something pop in her neck. Ignoring the faint throb of pain, she stood up to ensure the best vantage of... whatever it was.

Vernon Dursley was backing away from the freak, nearly falling over himself to get away. His frantic scream for his wife Petunia was clearly audible, as was the sheer terror in his voice. Mildred squinted at the freak, trying to discern what had set Dursley off, but for a long moment, she could see nothing out of the ordinary. 

Then, she noticed it. The freak had his hands clenched by his sides, and tiny bits of lightning were crackling out from between his fingers. His head was down and Mildred wasn't sure from so far away, but he seemed to be trembling. 

“Do you smell ozone?” Nancy asked with a peculiar tone on her voice, a second before there was a tremendous rush of wind and terrifying crack of thunder. 

Mildred had time for one bewildered and frightened glance at the others before the world went inexplicably white. She felt the sensation of falling, and then something very heavy smashed very hard into her head and she felt no more.

oOoOoOoOo

_...why’s he just sitting there staring..._  
...lost his entire family, poor lil bloke...  
...bloody miracle he survived...  
...henry, help me get him out of there...  
...blimey. doesn’t look like anything hit him...  
...only clear spot for a block...  
...creeping me out, that look in his eyes...  
...ain’t no one home there...  
...you’re at the hospital, dear. do you remember anything about...  
... in shock, your questions will have to... 

oOoOoOoOo

“... Rescue operations continue to work around the clock in the search for survivors of the Surrey disaster that occurred shortly after ten o’clock yesterday morning. Though no official word has yet been released on the cause of the explosion that levelled this quiet neighbourhood in Little Whinging, experts are speculating that a gas line running beneath the street may have ruptured, causing the devastation you can see here behind me. 

No official numbers have been released, but it is estimated by the rescue workers on the scene and elsewhere that as many as a dozen people may still be missing, buried alive beneath the rubble... or worse. At this time, only one survivor has thus far been located. His identity has not yet been released.”


	2. The Mind's Construction

  
Author's notes: Fallout of the Privet Drive disaster.  


* * *

**Chapter 1: The Mind’s Construction**

__

“...accidental magic often occurs when your child is upset, excited or angry, and is generally out of the child’s control. The stronger the child magically, the more powerful the outburst will be, though any damage caused with generally be negligible and easily repaired. In rare instances, more serious damage to home and family can occur with exceptionally powerful children. It is recommended that you both assure your child that it’s not their fault and stress the importance of a healthy emotional balance to lessen further outbursts from him or her.”

\- Excerpt from _Raising Your Magical Child_ by Marie Seedworth  
Chapter 7: “Temper Tantrums and Magical Outbursts”

Deep down inside, Harry knew he had killed the Dursleys. He had no hard evidence, there were no facts laid out to guide him to this conclusion. There were no constables asking him questions, and no one had come to inform him he was, for the second time in his life, an orphan. He couldn’t remember killing them, but he knew they were dead and he was responsible. He had no other explanation for the deep-seated sense of relief he felt.

_People protect themselves. That’s what you did._

Likewise, he knew that normal people should feel bad about doing something horrible. He should feel miserable and guilty and remorseful. His conscience should be chewing him a new orifice, every moment reminding him of the details. He thought that it should be parading out images of ... whatever it was he did to make him cry and writhe and drown in horror.

His conscience was indeed quite vocal, but it wasn’t shame it was causing him to feel. Instead, it seemed to be trying to reassure him that what he’d done, whatever it was, was perfectly justified.

_It was self-defense. The fat one was going to beat you again. The banshee was going to stand by and watch. The pig would have hurt you later. No one was going to come to help you. You did what you had to do. Why should you have to feel bad about protecting yourself?_

“Because it’s what people do,” he mumbled, not at all sure he should be holding one half of a conversation with himself aloud.

_Would you rather wallow in guilt?_

“Normal people would.”

_Normal people don’t sleep in their relatives’ cupboards, begging for scraps from the table like an unwanted mutt. Normal people have clothes that fit and friends of their own. You’re not_ normal _, and you never have been._

He wanted to argue with himself, he really did. But in spite of his intellect – something he’d always had to play down, because Dudley didn’t make as many marks as he did – he wasn’t sure how to go about it. He couldn’t help but think that it would be easier if he wasn’t making so much sense.

_And consider this: if they’re dead..._

Harry dug his nails into his palms hard enough to leave marks, but the distraction didn’t work. The thoughts – those sweet, forbidden thoughts – chased themselves ‘round in his head, gleeful and unapologetic. He struggled with himself only because he thought he should, trying to silence the inner voices until, finally, he had to think it.

_If they’re dead, then you’re free._

Once thought, it couldn’t be un-thought, and worse, he still didn’t feel guilty for thinking it. He knew he was being uncharitable and selfish. He knew he should be sad that his aunt and uncle and cousin were dead. He should be upset that his family, the last of his family, were gone. But he couldn’t. He just simply couldn’t.

_Is it such a bad thing that they’re dead?_

“Yes,” he whispered, staring at his hands.

_Why?_

“Because,” he started, but had to stop. He couldn’t think of a single reason. “Because,” he stated again. It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was all he had.

_They hated you._

Harry denied it, but he knew it was true.

_They enjoyed watching you suffer._

“No.”

_They_ wanted _you to suffer._

“No.”

_They locked you away in the smallest, darkest, most cramped space they could find..._

With the Dursleys dead, there would be no more living in a cupboard.

_... brought along their friends to taunt you..._

Dudley and his friends would never go Harry Hunting again.

_...found fault in everything you did..._

He’d never again hear Aunt Petunia’s shrill voices shrieking his sins at him.

Uncle Vernon’s angry, red, blubberous faces would never shout at him again.

_...tried to hurt you every chance they got..._

No more feet to trip him near the stairs.

No more ham-handed fists bruising his shoulders.

_But all that’s done with now, isn’t it? No more Uncle Vernon. No more Aunt Petunia. No more Cousin Dudley and his band of bullies. You’ve done it. You’ve stopped them. You’re free. Don’t screw it up with misplaced guilt over wastes of humanity._

“Free.” Harry tasted the word, and it felt so good he had to say it again. He closed his eyes, with his hands still tightly clenched in his lap, and stopped struggling to think how he thought he ought to, and just let himself feel. Emotions, raw and unchecked surged through him, so powerful he lost track of himself for a moment.

It was only a brief moment, but when he returned to awareness, he found his lips stretched in a smile, and tears of joy running down his cheeks. “Free,” he whispered again, and began to laugh. “Free.”

_Yes, Harry. Free,_ said the hushed, sibilant voice of his conscience, and deep in the back of his mind, he knew it was laughing with him.

oOoOoOoOoOo

__

“... in all of Europe, only members of the Quinn family of County Kerry, Ireland, have the ability to physically reconstruct the events of the past through the use of the Time’s Theatre incantation. Why this is, no one is certain. If the Quinn clan knows, they have certainly never told anyone. So if you want this talent, ladies and gentlemen, best be born a Quinn!”

-Excerpt from _Rare and Exciting Magical Abilities: Have You Got One?_ by Cleo Dallence,  
Chapter 13: “Time and Magic”

“Whenever you’re ready, Miss Quinn.”

Tara rubbed her eyes and bit back a groan. She was tired, she was cranky, and she was reaching the outer limits of her ability, yet here they were, wanting to see it again. As if she hadn’t already replayed the scene over and over again. The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had taken first crack at her, needing to see it twice to ensure their Obliviators wouldn’t miss a single witness. Then the Department of Law Enforcement wanted to their Aurors to witness it, to see if further action on their part needed to be undertaken. Then the Minister had required a private showing; following that pompous git had been the Unspeakables, for Merlin only knew what reasons. The Unspeakables gave her the willies every single time she encountered them, and being in their company for close to an hour had not been at all pleasant.

“Miss Quinn?”

She barely restrained the urge to tell her companion to sod off. Had it been anyone else, she wouldn’t have bothered holding back. But one did not tell Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, to sod off. “Give me a minute,” she grumbled, wishing for the eighth time that day alone the family talent had skipped over her.

“Take your time, Miss Quinn,” Dumbledore said affably, and fell silent. At least he hadn’t offered her any sweets, as he had when she had been a student at Hogwarts.

Tara sat there on the crumbled side of the house as long as she dared, putting off the moment where she would have to stand and work again. Mum wouldn’t have put up with this, she thought sourly as she reached down to pick up her wand from where it had fallen between her feet. Then again, Mum wouldn’t be here working for the Ministry of Magic. Mum had better sense than to get involved in politics. Come to think of it, everyone in the family but her had that kind of sense.

The spell was a simple one, a quick flick-circle-flick and two words to intone, but very few people could cast it. Most days, it was a privilege being one of those few. She didn’t have the finesse of Uncle Alastair, nor the raw power of her father, nor the sheer reach of Cousin Denny who had once replayed events from the late 18th century to impress a girl. What she did have was a cushy Ministry job, a steady salary and a promise of guaranteed work for her talent.

She thought she might have gotten the short end of the stick.

There was no putting it off anymore. Tara rose to her feet, wincing as the abused muscles in her shoulders screamed protest. She rolled them uncomfortably and gave her wand arm a shake. Her wand, nine and a half inches of rowan with a core of unicorn hair, felt heavier than it should, and she raised it with some difficulty.

Tara gritted her teeth and gathered her waning reserves of magic, fighting with her own magical core to find enough energy to power the spell. Headmaster Dumbledore only wanted to see what had happened at this one property, not the entire street like the other Ministry officials. Surely this would be the last time she’d have to cast this spell today. Surely she had it in her for just once more.

When she had the bare minimums of energy required and had convinced herself she really could do this without passing out, she went through the wand motions with tired efficiency. “ _Theatrum Temporus_!” she shouted.

The golden light that arched out over the ruins of Number 4 Privet Drive wasn’t as bright as it would have been, were she fresh on the job, and the ruins that rebuilt themselves weren’t quite as solid as they should have been. Ghostly figures wavered in and out of existence before resolving themselves as a round, angry man coming out of the house and a quiet, scrawny boy halfway up a rickety ladder with a paint can and a brush in hand.

Tara sagged as the magic left her, and would have fallen if not for the steadying hand of Albus Dumbledore on her elbow. “Most impressive, Miss Quinn,” he said, as if he didn’t either see or perform himself incredible and rare feats of magic every day. Exhausted as she was, Tara still felt that little thrill of pride that Dumbledore, of all wizards, was impressed with the family’s magic. “You’ve done beautifully. Why don’t you sit down and take a rest? “

“Thank you, Headmaster,” she mumbled, and sank to the ground. She set her spinning head between her knees, distantly wondering if she were going to vomit. She was grateful she didn’t have to follow him to see it all again. She’d heard enough of the Dursley fellow’s insults, taunts and threats to last a lifetime, and she’d seen the intense rage and pain go over the boy’s face before his magical core had lashed out. Even hearing it from a distance, as she currently could, was bad enough.

She thought she might go back to the family manor in County Kerry after a nap. Just so she could hug her mother and thank her for being a loving parent. And her father. Merlin’s balls, she would thank her whole family, right down to Cousin Jackson, blubbering, smarmy blighter that he was.

“Thank you very kindly, Miss Quinn,” Dumbledore suddenly said, and Tara jerked her head up. The ruins around her were just that, ruins once again. The spell had run its course, and she hadn’t even noticed. Dumbledore offered her a hand up, and she gladly took it. The Headmaster smiled at her, and she wasn’t too tired to notice the lines of concern and worry around his eyes. “I know this has been a very tiring experience, and I humbly appreciate you using your talents one last time for me.”

“So long as it is the last time,” she agreed with a smile that felt lopsided and loopy. “If you saw what you needed to see, Headmaster?”

“I did, Miss Quinn,” Dumbledore said. “I believe I was the last on the schedule for your services today. I do apologize for my shortness, Miss Quinn, but I have matters to which I must attend. Perhaps another day, we can have a longer chat.”

Tara made all the appropriate noises, agreed to visit Hogwarts on another day to discuss a guest lecture for Professor Flitwick, then sighed in sheer, blissful relief as Dumbledore Apparated away. With the Chief Warlock gone, only the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes were left to finish the mop-up. And they knew better than to approach her for yet another viewing. She was done. Finally done.

She tucked her wand back into its holster at her hip and was reaching for her Ministry-assigned Portkey when a gaggle of men and women Apparated onto the street and began to make their way towards the ruins of Number 4. With a sinking feeling, she let her hand drop out of her robes. If these people were here to have her jump through another hoop, she wouldn’t be held responsible for her actions.

It was only when they got closer that she realized they were all reporters. Not one wore official robes of any sort, just badges pinned to their breasts. And the sheer amount of charmed quills, parchments, and flashes from wizarding cameras was astounding. They were being led by a man in brown robes, who would have been dashing if it wasn’t for the overabundance of tooth in his smile.

“This is restricted territory,” she said when they’d gotten close enough. “Official business only, by order of the Ministry.”

The man in the brown robes waved a piece of parchment above his head. When he spoke, his accent placed him from somewhere around Dublin. “We have special Ministry dispensation to be here, Miss...”

“Specialist Quinn,” she corrected, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t think to place her with the Quinn clan. Quinn was a common enough name in Ireland, after all. “Currently on assignment with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

“Specialist Quinn,” the lead man drawled with a brilliant, toothy smile. Tara cringed at the sight of it and kicked herself for hoping an Irish reporter wouldn’t recognize her. “I am Hormus Mallory of the Dublin Banshee. It’s such a treat, such an honor, to meet one of the famous Quinn clan. Heard so much about you. Owled your father once for an interview, but he never got back to me.”

“I’ll be sure to mention it to him,” she said, and turned her attention to his dozen companions. “I suppose you lot are all reporters then?”

“Yes, of course, Specialist,” Mallory said. “We’re here for the facts. All the facts. The bare unvarnished truth.” Tara eyed the number of green Quick Quotes Quills already in use, and sincerely doubted that was the case. “Specialist Quinn, if I may be so bold as to ask...”

Tara recanted her earlier desire to resign at the earliest opportunity. Really, it was moments like this that made everything worth it. “You’d care to see what happened here then? The Time’s Theatre incantation?”

Mallory’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas. “Oh yes!” he bubbled. “If you please.”

Tara smiled, her first real smile of the day. “Sod off, you pack of bloody vultures,” she said pleasantly, and reached into her robes to activate her Portkey. She had time to enjoy the shocked, scandalized and outraged expressions of the press members before she was yanked back to her quiet, comfortable office.

As she passed out on the couch, she thought that the memory of those reporters’ reactions might give her joy enough to produce her first corporeal Patronus.


	3. Distortion

  
Author's notes: Harry discovers the joys of magic.  


* * *

  
**Chapter 2: Distortion**

_He used to be a nice guy  
Then he cut that shit out_  
~ Kevin Rudolf, “NYC”

By the end of his third day in the hospital, Harry was mightily tired of answering questions. If it wasn’t the nurses or doctors prodding him to tell them about his medical history, it was the social workers demanding to know how many meals he was used to having a day, how many bruises he could remember acquiring, and what his home life had been like prior to the incident.

Harry dodged what questions he could entirely, and gave vague answers to those he couldn’t. The truly probing inquiries he ignored altogether, burying his head in one of the books he’d borrowed from the children’s library. One of the two social workers had taken the book right out of his hands, but she got the point three books later when Harry simply left the room instead of talk to her.

The two constables that showed up to get his statement made Harry distinctly uneasy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about the two plainclothes officers made his stomach queasy. He reached for his cup of juice and took a long swallow as the two men, one tall and bald, the other rounder and full-bearded, came into the room. 

“Good afternoon, sir,” the tall one said, removing a notepad and pencil from the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m PC Renfrew, and this is PC Morgan. I was wondering if we could have a moment of your time.”

Harry said nothing, just eyed the two and fought the urge to bolt. He didn’t miss the gun holstered on Renfrew’s hip, or the handcuffs hanging beside them. He glanced down at the IV in his hand, tying him to the drip stand, and tried to calculate how fast it would take and how much it would hurt to haul it out.

“You are Mr. Harry Potter, of Number 4 Privet Drive, correct?” Renfrew licked the end of his pencil and made a notation after Harry nodded. “Can you tell us, sir, what happened Saturday morning?”

Harry’s unease went up a notch at that question, and he chewed on his lip as he debated how to answer. He considered and rejected half a dozen answers, before he finally settled on, “I don’t know, sir. I don’t know what happened.” 

Morgan consulted his own notebook. “We’ve determined that the point of the explosion centered around Number 4 Privet Drive. Did your uncle or aunt have any enemies?”

“Not that I know of, sir.” 

“Did they have any hobbies or habits that might account for this?”

Harry blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Morgan frowned a little, and tapped a finger against the back of his notebook. “Mr. Potter, we’ve been informed that you suffered some abuse and neglect at the hands of your family. It isn’t a stretch to imagine that they might have other unsavoury habits as well. Bomb-making, or perhaps cooking up methamphetamines.”

“Oh. No sir, nothing like that.”

Morgan flipped a page. “We’ve also reports that your cousin was a proper hoodlum in the making as well,” he said. “Did _he_ have any drug habits, or consort with people who might?”

Harry shrugged. “Dudley and I didn’t get on,” he said. “I didn’t know any of his friends that well.”

The questions came more rapidly after that. Were there any shady types on the street that he could remember. Was it possible he was misremembering something. Could it have been a neighbour with a grievance against his family. Did his family use a gas oven in any part of the house. Never once did they ask if he had done it, never once did they even allude to such a thing. But Harry was quick enough to notice that they were asking questions that eliminated everyone but him from responsibility.

He squirmed, just a little, but he was certain the sharp eyes of the constables picked up on it. “Why are you asking me all of this?” 

Renfrew fixed him with an indecipherable stare, pausing in his note-taking. “Because, sir,” he said, “you’re the only one left _to_ ask.”

It was then Harry _knew_ with absolute certainty that the constables knew he was responsible. They weren’t here to get his statement, they were here to trick him into admitting something. Then, they’d cuff him and haul him off to a place that, according to everything Harry had ever heard, made the Dursleys look like a holiday resort. 

_I just escaped one prison. I’m not going to another._

The dread quietly building within him suddenly erupted in raw, drowning power. Wind whipped his hair into his eyes, and a pressure he couldn’t identify squeezed his chest, crescendoing with merciless force until he was struggling to breathe. The lights flickered madly. Machines from this room and others went into a frenzy of beeps and clicks, and sparks erupted from a console across the room. Shouts of alarm and fear sounded from the hall. 

_You won’t take me!_

Starbursts exploded behind his eyelids. With a gasp of relief so profound it was almost bliss, the suffocating pressure left Harry’s chest, exploding painlessly through his head and whiting over his vision. Distantly, he heard screaming, and then a thump, like a body dropping to the ground. When his vision cleared, the constables were no longer where they’d been sitting. 

Morgan was thrashing on the floor, one hand clutching his chest and face contorted in a purple rictus of agony. Renfrew was on his knees beside him, shouting for help and trying to keep his partner still. A nurse dashing by paused in the doorway, then rushed in to begin administering CPR.

Harry sat on the bed, the calm in the middle of the storm, watching. Morgan’s flailing was short-lived, and it wasn’t long at all before his face went slack and he stilled. Renfrew barked something about a pacemaker and a history of heart attacks at the nurse, who was still desperately trying to help the fallen Morgan. Beyond in the hall, he could see panicked patients and staff hustling about, dragging machinery with them, rushing from one room to the next with worried and terrified expressions.

The lights flickered one last time, died, and then came back up.

Harry slid off the bed, tossed the few things he wanted to keep into a trash bag, and slipped out the door in the middle of the chaos. 

oOoOoOoOo

He changed in the bathroom, into clothes one of the sympathetic nurses had brought him from one of the charities associated with the hospital. The clothing was second-hand, knees on the jeans worn to faded white patches, but the fact that they were hand-me-downs didn’t bother him. Everything he’d worn during his years with the Dursleys had been second-hand, after all. What was odd was that this particular set of hand-me-downs more or less fit his frame, and as a result, felt far more restrictive than Dudley’s whale-sized cast-offs ever had. 

Getting out of the hospital itself was a bit more challenging, but he finally managed to find an entrance with few people around in the basement, and from there it was only a matter of crossing the parking lot and heading down the road to freedom. 

The Dursleys had only grudgingly taken him anywhere – and then only because they were afraid the house would be in ruins when they returned if they left him home alone – and none of those places had really prepared him for being alone in the city. The noise alone was deafening: honks and beeps and people calling to one another, music blaring from shops and flats. 

His first order of business was to get something to eat, as the constables had infringed on him before lunch was due to be served. He found a section of the street occupied with cafés and open-air restaurants and sidled along to the tables, watching for his opportunity. He was small and quick, and living with the Dursleys had long since taught him how to snatch food from plates when no one was looking. It only took him a couple of grabs before he had almost enough food to get him by one meal, as well as a few pound notes patrons had left as tips on the tables. 

He decided not to press his luck as customers complained about the missing items, and the wait staff now seemed to be on the alert. He retreated down the block to a small, private park and slipped in through a crack in the gates. None of the other people appeared to notice him, so he made his way to the quietest corner and sat on a bench to have his feast. The food was far finer than anything he’d eaten before, and half a burger filled his stomach quite pleasantly. The rest of the food went into the trash bag with his few other possessions in case he got hungry later and couldn’t find another source. If living with the Dursleys had taught him anything else, it was that you always needed to have something squirreled away, because dinner was never a guarantee.

When the business of lunch had been finished, Harry found himself at odds for something to do. He wasn’t sure what boys his age really did on summer holidays. If they were anything like Dudley, they’d probably be out throwing rocks at dogs and turning five-year-olds upside down for their ice cream money. None of that really sounded appealing to Harry, nor did finishing up the copy of Watership Down he’d nicked from the hospital.

Unsurprisingly, his thoughts wandered back to his display this morning, and the one he was certain he’d had three days ago. He flexed his fingers and stared down at his hand thoughtfully, seeing in his mind’s eye tiny forks of lightning spraying from between them. 

He had read enough of Dudley’s comics to know superpowers when he saw one, but such things were not possible in the real world. And yet... and yet he had done... something to his relatives after he reached the end of his tether with them. He couldn’t discount the hospital this morning either, with that odd surge of energy seconds before the lights went wonky and the constable collapsed. It had happened as if by magic, and...

_Magic_. That word had a familiar, heady feel to it, and somewhere deep inside, Harry knew he had hit the head of the nail with that one word. He rolled it around in his mind, tried it out loud, and found that it _resonated_ within him. Magic. Did that make him a wizard then? If so, did that mean he could control that strange force that had twice now moved through him? Could he read minds, fly through the air, speak to animals? Could he move things with his mind? 

The thought alone of so many things he might be able to do excited him to no end, and he couldn’t resist bouncing in his seat at the mere notion of it. He cast around, trying to find a suitable object to practice on, and smiled when his gaze settled on a pinecone nestled under a tree five yards away. He stretched out a hand, like he’d seen superheroes do in the scant moments he’d glimpsed them on the telly or looked at them in comic books, and bent all his eleven-year-old concentration to the task of making it float.

oOoOoOoOo

Three hours later, Harry was exhausted, drained, starving and exhilarated beyond all definition. After hours of trying, he had finally managed to make the pinecone first twitch, then roll, then wobble through the air to him. He reached out with his right and caught it before it could hit the ground as his fledgling control broke. He grinned broadly and suppressed a yawn, setting the pinecone down beside him as his stomach grumbled loudly.

He dug in his plastic bag and came out with a take-away cup of fries, long since gone cold. But food was food, and he was ravenous. He quickly devoured the entire cup, and started rummaging for the other he was sure he’d grabbed. It took him a bit of searching – he’d nicked more food than he thought – but finally, he crowed in triumph and brought them out.

“You’ve given us quite a run for our money, Mr. Potter,” a no-nonsense voice said from somewhere in the vicinity of his right shoulder. Harry yelped, dropped his cold fries and scrambled to his feet. Behind him stood a man dressed in very odd clothing indeed, but Harry only barely took in the long dark robes, the black, weirdly shiny boots, and the slender stick in his hand. 

Already, the pressure was rising in his chest, albeit sluggish and slow. The nascent energies he’d been learning to control over the past little while responded to his fright, and to his great shock, a wavering, less-than-solid, pale red light the size of a lozenge shot out of his fingers and wobbled through the air between Harry and the stranger.

The stranger looked completely unimpressed, and batted the flickering light away with his stick. “None of that now, Mr. Potter,” he said, and strode forward to grab Harry’s shoulder. “You’ve given the Ministry enough trouble for one day, lad. Come along now.”

Harry had spent years avoiding large cousins and larger uncles grabbing at him, and it was child’s play to twist and slip out of the stranger’s grasp. For an instant, he debated lunging for the rest of his lunch, but the irritated sigh of the stranger and the strange words he muttered put to rest that notion. 

The space between Harry’s shoulder blades prickled in warning, and almost before he knew what he was doing, he dodged left. Another red lozenge, this one much brighter and firmer than Harry’s had been, sailed past his nose by an inch to impact harmlessly against the trunk of a tree. Harry gulped and decided that discretion was by far the better part of valour. He twisted to start running, panic choking his breath...

... and suddenly, he found himself back on Privet Drive, standing on the demolished front lawn of what had once been his home. Harry stumbled at the suddenness of it all, and stared around in confusion at the ruins. He wasn’t sure what was more shocking: the sheer extent of the destruction he had caused, or the fact that, mere moments ago, he’d been somewhere not even remotely close to Privet Drive.

Something popped quietly in the air behind him, but before Harry could do much more than process the noise, a familiar, highly irritated voice snapped “ _Stupefy_!” The last thing Harry felt was the impact of something against his back before the world dissolved around him.


End file.
